


Gold

by notjustmom



Series: Colours [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 20:26:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7655539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom





	Gold

For the first time in months, both men who normally found sleep difficult if not impossible slept the sleep of children trying to hurry the coming day along. 

Sherlock had straightened the piles, blown the dust from the mantelpiece and shifted some boxes, and after some consideration, moved the chair from the extra bedroom to sit directly across from his own. He considered hiding the skull, but Dr. Watson(John?) might as well see everything, he didn't seem the type that liked surprises. He laid on the couch, intending to rest his eyes, then look over that stack of cold cases again, but instead, he found himself lost in a dream, not a nightmare for the first time since he could remember dreaming. A dream in gold, specifically the strands of gold, nearly military regulation length hair he noticed earlier that day. Ridiculous. When he opened his eyes again, the golden light of the morning made the dust sparkle. If he had been the owner of a fanciful mind, he would call it a sign, as it was he considered it beautiful and worthy of study for the next ten minutes before he realised he needed tea and possibly at least a piece of toast, maybe two.

 

John sat at his local, watching the end of the match with the regular crowd, and swirling the last of single malt that he had treated himself to that night. He rarely splurged, but he felt like celebrating that night, what, exactly, he wasn't sure. He held the glass up to the light and saw the golden colour dance, like the amber he had seen in Sherlock's eyes. Damn. It had only been a few hours and he couldn't shake the moment when he had winked at him, those marvelous eyes that had twinkled at him. He finished his drink, threw his last few pounds on the bar and grabbed his cane. He nodded a good night to the man behind the bar and made the long walk home. Normally, he would shower, then put on the late news, and afterwards settle down with a book, sometimes he would get a couple hours of sleep before the nightmares began, usually triggered by an event on the telly, or a conversation he had overheard. Tonight, he skipped the news and got into bed and closed his eyes. Perhaps it was the single malt, or the walk home. He suspected it was the simple idea of starting again, a new adventure, for some that would keep them awake and jittery. He had always found it calming, again, he knew his therapist would take off her glasses, squint at him and question why he thought that was. He smiled knowing he had visited her for the last time earlier in the week, he knew he was done with the trick cyclist. When the warm morning light burst through the standard non-descript blinds, it roused him from a dream of staring into those eyes, the smiling eyes of the man he had just met, right before he leaned in for a kiss.

"Damn."


End file.
